The Fellowship of the Fanfic Cliches
by OdeToANightingale
Summary: A hobbit who's always ill, an elf with an abusive father, a sexist Gondorian, and various other walking stereotypes set out on a quest to destroy the One Ring!
1. A Long-Expected Illness

**The Fellowship of the Fanfic Cliches**

 _Disclaimer:_ It's mine! My own, my _preciousss_. No, not really. _The Lord of the Rings_ belongs to the great J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just borrowing his characters to get over my writer's block.

 _Note:_ So, this is a parody written in good fun. It isn't meant to mock anyone's story, though it does poke fun at various cliches that are prevalent in LotR fanfic. This first chapter is a parody on all those stories where Frodo is injured/sick/kidnapped/on-the-verge-of death. I don't have anything against those kinds of stories. I've even enjoyed quite a few of them! But it gets a little humorous after a while when the poor hobbit is _always_ the one who becomes deathly ill all the time. So, on with the parody. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 1: A Long-Expected Illness**

When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton. Frodo Baggins, Bilbo's sickly nephew, would be celebrating his thirty-third birthday on the same date, and all of Hobbiton was busy speculating on whether or not Frodo would make it to the party. The fact that he had actually survived to age thirty-three was considered a great marvel among hobbit folk in the Shire.

"Twenty bucks says he kicks the bucket right before the party," Ted Sandyman said, seated among a table of gossipers in the Green Dragon.

"I'll bet he gets kidnapped in the middle of the celebration," said Farmer Cotton.

"Or takes a tumble out of a tree and ends up bedridden for months," Lotho Sackville-Baggins added hopefully.

"You gentlemen ought to lay off of poor Mr. Frodo," the Gaffer scolded them over his ale. "It's true that I never saw a lad with such a talent for taking ill, but he's in good hands up at Bag End. Hasn't Mr. Bilbo nursed him back to health every time?"

"Just barely," muttered Lotho, once again speaking hopefully.

It was a well-known fact in Hobbiton that Lotho, along with his two odious parents, was quite pleased with Frodo's tendency to become sick or injured at the drop of a hat. The family had often fallen suspect in a number of Frodo's "accidents," though nobody could ever produce any proof. That very moment, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was snooping around Bag End with her umbrella in hand, peering through the windows to see how Frodo was faring with his latest bout of pneumonia. Despite the fact that it was a warm June day, the poor Baggins lad had been confined to his bed with a particularly nasty case of the illness. He shouldn't have gone out walking without an extra jacket, Bilbo kept telling him.

Lobelia could hear somebody coughing feebly within Bag End. She peeked through the window of Frodo's bedroom and found him sweating and shivering with fever, his skin as clammy and pale as the dead. Harsh breaths escaped his sore throat as he struggled for breath. It was really uncanny, Lobelia thought, how he always managed to catch such dreadful pneumonia _every_ single summer. "And yet somehow always manages to pull through," she added bitterly under her breath, thinking longingly of the hobbit hole she could inherit if Frodo failed to recover.

Bilbo, who was in Frodo's bedroom tending to his sickly nephew, perked up his sharp ears and went to the window. "What's that noise out there?" He came face-to-face with Lobelia, who couldn't escape in time. " _You!_ " cried Bilbo, enraged. "Always hanging about, waiting to see if you'll be next to inherit, aren't you?"

"Who, me?" said Lobelia innocently, leaning on her umbrella. "I just wanted to see how the poor dear is feeling!" She pretended to look concerned. " _Is_ he better?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know?" said Bilbo. "Clear off, Lobelia! There's nothing to see here!"

Lobelia scampered off. Bilbo sighed, helped Frodo through another terrible bout of coughing, and bustled back into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Just as the water was starting to boil, a loud knock came at the front door.

"I _told_ you to clear off!" Bilbo shouted.

The knocking persisted.

Grumbling to himself under his breath, Bilbo stomped over to the door and yanked it open. "It's indecent, you know, to ogle so much at a sick boy!" he said. "He'll never recover if you keep on distressing him, but of course that's what you _want_ , isn't it?"

"Not at all, Bilbo," said a voice that did not belong to Lobelia.

Bilbo blinked and realized that Gandalf stood in the doorway.

"How's Frodo doing?" Gandalf asked. "Another case of bronchitis, is it?"

"Pneumonia," Bilbo corrected, letting his old friend into the house. "Bronchitis was last month. And a broken leg the month before that. I _told_ him not to climb Farmer Cotton's prized apple tree, but he never listens!" He sighed and poured two cups of tea. "I don't know how I can ever rest easy in Rivendell, knowing that boy's got a catastrophe waiting for him around every corner!"

"Is it really that terrible?" asked Gandalf.

"Oh, yes. You have no idea! Just last year he managed to cut himself on the _only_ rusty nail within a thousand miles. He had to have three blood transfusions and even _that_ wasn't enough to rid him of all the poison. There were still lingering traces, of course, which led to four consecutive illnesses that left him bedridden for a fortnight apiece. I'm nearly at my wit's end, Gandalf! I so dearly want to see Rivendell again, but the moment I leave my doorstep that boy is likely to _breathe_ the wrong way and wind up on his deathbed again."

"You could always take Frodo with you," Gandalf suggested.

Bilbo made a face at his tea. "It would never work. I took him on a trip to see the elves for his twenty-fifth birthday and it's a miracle he came home in one piece. He was kidnapped and tortured by _werewolves_ , of all things. In this part of Middle-earth! And have I told you about the poison-tipped orc arrow that nearly took off his arm when he was twenty-two? That was _another_ trip I'll never forget." He sighed and stirred some more sugar into his cup. "I suppose there's no avoiding it. No matter what happens, no matter where I go, Frodo is sure to attract misfortune. Some higher power must have a grudge against him, I suppose."

"And what of the ring?" asked Gandalf. "You _must_ leave him the ring, no matter how sickly he is." He took a thoughtful drag on his pipe and slyly added, "You know, according to ring lore, solid gold rings are supposed to lend certain healing properties to those who are sickly. They can act as a talisman of sorts."

"Is that right?" said Bilbo, cheering up slightly. "You'll keep an eye on him too, of course, won't you? I've hired a few Rangers to keep an extra close watch around here, but you can never tell what will happen to that boy. He was bit by an incredibly rare, deadly breed of ant last winter, you know. An _ant_! And he would have never made it if I hadn't stocked up on Elrond's special medicines. He ships them to me monthly."

"And a finer supply I've never seen," said Gandalf, admiring Bilbo's stockpile of medicines and first aid kits that lined an entire wall.

"Yes, well, my only hope is that Frodo gets well enough to make it to the party," sighed Bilbo. "And this time I've warned him not to eat anything I didn't bake with my own two hands. He had a _dreadful_ allergic reaction at his last birthday. Couldn't get the hives to go away for weeks. And you can't even imagine how his tongue swelled up! I feared he would expire right then and there."

"He seems to be pulling through," Gandalf said optimistically. "And will be quite well enough to inherit that ring, I'm sure."

Frodo did manage to recover, as Gandalf predicted, and felt well enough to attend the magnificent party Bilbo had planned. He was still rather pale and couldn't stand without feeling dizzy, but since it was his birthday, nobody found it unusual to see him reclining in an armchair beneath the Party Tree, heaped with enough blankets and cushions to smother the sturdiest hobbit. A tray of food (free of allergens) sat propped on his lap and Bilbo frequently checked on him to make sure he didn't choke on the cake. It wouldn't be the first time he had to call a medic to perform the Heimlich maneuver at one of his parties.

The party was going smoothly when Merry and Pippin, who served absolutely no purpose outside of drinking, smoking, and pulling pranks, decided to steal some of Gandalf's fireworks and set them off.

The very biggest firework, which was shaped like a dragon, immediately hit Frodo and exploded, practically burning him to a crisp.

Merry and Pippin, who of course had no lives outside of mischief-making, both thought this was hilarious.

"Oh, drat!" said Bilbo, wringing his hands over the smoking, blackened form of his nephew. "I was going to give a farewell speech, but I suppose this calls for a lecture instead."

Bilbo hopped up onto a tree stump and lectured the entire party on the dangers of fireworks. A team of paramedics lifted Frodo onto a stretcher and took him away to be (hopefully) healed of his burns.

"And let this be a lessons to all of you!" cried Bilbo, shaking his fist at the crowd of feasting hobbits. "I've had quite enough of this place. I'm going now. GOODBYE."

He put on the ring and vanished, but by then everyone was too drunk to notice.

Unfortunately Bilbo could not depart right then and there, thanks to Frodo's most recent injury, and he was forced to remain at Bag End for a month while Frodo recovered. In the meantime he ordered more medicines from Elrond, restocked all the first aid kits, and placed his shiny gold ring in an envelope on the mantel.

As soon as Frodo was up and walking again, Gandalf came by for another visit.

"I suppose you're heading off to Rivendell finally?" he asked Bilbo.

"At long last," said Bilbo, fetching his walking stick from the corner. "I've doubled the Ranger security on Hobbiton and removed all sharp, dangerous, and slippery surfaces from the house."

"And the ring?" asked Gandalf.

"Right on the mantle where I left it," said Bilbo, suddenly looking shifty. "Well, it was nice chatting with you, Gandalf! I'll be off now!"

Bilbo tried to rush out the door, but Gandalf blocked the doorway with his staff. "Not so fast, Bilbo!"

"What _now_ , Gandalf?"

"How can you deprive your sickly, invalid nephew of a shiny treasure like that ring of yours? What if he becomes deathly ill again? What joy will he have in his pathetic life if you deprive him of that ring? How will you be able to _sleep_ at night, Bilbo, knowing that you've taken that away from a less fortunate lad who needs it?"

Bilbo's lip started trembling and he hastily wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, all right. You've made your point!" He took the ring out of his pocket and tossed it on the floor. "I'll be off now."

"Aren't you going to say farewell to Frodo?"

Bilbo sighed. "I suppose so." He trotted off and went all through the house, calling Frodo's name, but nobody responded. At last Bilbo returned to the entrance hall with a piece of paper clutched in his hand. "Drat, drat, _drat_! Frodo's gone and gotten himself kidnapped again. This is the third time in the last five months! This ransom note says I'm to leave five hundred gold coins at the back door of the Green Dragon before sundown tonight." He smacked himself in the forehead. "I'll be flat broke if these kidnappers keep up their games!"

"Here," said Gandalf, producing a small bag of coins from the pocket of his robes.

"Thanks, Gandalf." Pooling their money together, Bilbo marched off to the Green Dragon and left the coins at the back door, just as the ransom note had instructed.

Twenty minutes later Frodo was returned to him, though the lad was bruised and had received a scratch on his cheek.

"And it's sure to become infected, no doubt!" Bilbo grumbled, dabbing at Frodo's face with a handkerchief doused in antibacterial cleanser. He sighed and looked at Gandalf. "You'll stay here for a day or two, won't you, Gandalf? I'll rest easier if you do."

"I'll stay for a month," Gandalf promised him, handing Frodo some Neosporin and a band-aid.

"This is it, then, my old friend. I'm off at last." Bilbo put on his pack and grabbed his walking stick, then headed out the door and down the lane, singing to himself as he went:

 _The wounds go ever on and on  
_ _And on and on AND ON  
_ _They'll never stop, will they?  
_ _The wounds go ever on and on  
_ _And I must GET OUT OF HERE if I can._


	2. The Shadow of the Stalker

_Note:_ Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far! Your words are appreciated. Again, this story is not intended to insult a particular cliche or the authors who write them. Personally, gay Sam is not my cup of tea, but if you like that sort of thing, then that's fine. Also, I should mention that this parody is a mixture of bookverse and movieverse, leaning a little more heavily toward the books. :)

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 **Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Stalker**

Seventeen years had passed since Bilbo departed for Rivendell. For most residents of Hobbiton, they were mostly uneventful years, but for the local doctor and his unusually large staff of nurses, it was a terribly busy time. Mr. Frodo Baggins of Bag End had always been an unusual sort, but since Bilbo left he was more peculiar than ever. He was always coming down with strange illnesses and twice the local undertaker had mistaken him for a corpse and nearly buried him alive—much to the excitement of the Sackville-Bagginses.

"He's bound to bite the dust _sooner_ or later," Lotho declared over his usual ale at the Green Dragon. "Nobody can come down with tetanus _that_ many times and live."

"Except for Mr. Frodo," Sam Gamgee said loyally, seated at his usual seat near the bar counter. He remembered just in time to glance at Rosie Cotton and pretend to make eyes at her. Rosie, who hadn't heard the rumors about Sam, thought his gesture was genuine and blushed behind the mug she was scrubbing.

Lotho was not fooled. "Seems to me like you're a little too fond of that _Mr. Frodo_ of yours," he sneered at Sam.

Sam's ears turned red. "You shut your mouth, Sackville-Baggins."

He swallowed the rest of his ale and stalked out of the Green Dragon. Once Sam was certain he was alone, he sighed and leaned against the nearest tree.

"Frodo _Baggins_ ," he muttered to himself. "What a chump. What a weakling! I hate the way the common cold can land him on his deathbed. I hate the way he coughs and sneezes in the dead of night. Most of all, I hate the stubborn way he insists that he's fine all the time! And yet…" He pulled out the heart-shaped locket he always wore around his neck. A picture of Frodo was contained inside. "…I _love_ him!" His eyes misted over and he held the locket close to his chest. "When will I ever gain the courage to tell him how I feel? To tell him that every time he sneezes in my direction, my heart sprouts wings and soars off into the sunset of my love! Oh, how I treasure every germ that comes my way. Every soulful gaze from those tormented eyes. Be mine, my dearest hobbit, be MINE!"

Rosie Cotton, who was lurking outside, crept over to Sam with a hopeful gleam in her eyes. Sam threw an apple at her and ran off.

He trotted back home to his hobbit hole, where the Gaffer was outside tending to his cabbages, and went to the little shrine he kept at the very back of his closet. In a fit of creativity, Sam had built a little statue of Frodo's head and shoulders using a curly brown wig, the top half of a dressmaker's dummy, and two bright blue marbles for the eyes.

Sam sat adoringly in front of his shrine, scribbling poetry in the little notebook he kept hidden in the closet.

 _F is for that fruit that gave you a rash  
_ _R is for the roast beef you puked in the trash  
_ _O is for operation—you've had quite a few  
_ _D is for the drugs you took for the flu  
_ _O again is for the orc that pinned you to a tree_

 _Dear Frodo, no one loves you as well as me.  
_ _Love, Sam._

A knock came at his bedroom door. "Sam, lad, what's going on in there?" asked the Gaffer.

"Uh, nothing!" said Sam, hastily shutting his notebook.

"Well get your arse outside. Mr. Frodo's petunias need watering."

Sam gasped and ran in front of his mirror to make sure his hair looked all right. Now was his chance to tell Mr. Frodo how he felt! Armed with his watering can and a pack of breath mints, he trotted on over to Bag End to give the petunias a good watering. A fit of coughing brought his attention to Frodo's bedroom window. The object of his affections was laid up in bed, as usual, recovering from a broken arm _and_ one of his usual springtime colds.

"There he is," Sam whispered to himself, peeking into Frodo's window. He had become an expert at peeking without getting caught, since he always watched Frodo get undressed for bed every night. He clutched the heart-shaped locket around his neck and trembled. " _Oh_ , if only you would shine those brilliant eyes upon me with more than friendship in your heart! Why, oh why, do I fear to speak? Why won't the right words pass through these adoring lips? I long so much to say those words—the words that will unlock my soul and bind me to you forevermore!"

Suddenly he heard breathing behind him.

"Oh, Sam!" gushed Rosie, who had been following him again. "Please, say the words. I—"

He threw another apple at her and knocked her unconscious.

Sam resumed his spying through Frodo's window, hoping to catch the sickly hobbit with his shirt off, when the sound of wagon wheels alerted him. Gandalf had come along for one of his frequent visits. Frodo struggled out of bed and slowly went to meet the wizard, while Sam shifted position and found a new window to crouch under. Soon Frodo and Gandalf were in the kitchen, sharing a pot of tea.

"How's the hip feeling?" Gandalf asked Frodo.

"It aches a bit when the weather is bad," said Frodo, pouring a cup of tea. Frodo had gotten his right hip replaced last year after falling off a roof.

"Well, I must say, you're walking very well without the crutches. But I didn't come here to inquire on your frequently failing health, dear Frodo. Do you still have that ring?"

Sam's ears perked up as he continued to eavesdrop. Fear gripped his heart. What was all this about a ring? What if Gandalf was hoping to _marry_ Frodo? It was more than Sam could bear!

"I've still got it," said Frodo. "It's in the trunk next to my bed. I can go fetch it if you—"

"No, no, allow me," Gandalf said, gently pushing Frodo back into his seat. "I wouldn't want you straining that arm of yours."

"Don't you touch him," Sam muttered jealously under his breath, watching the whole thing through the kitchen window.

Gandalf soon returned with a shiny gold ring. Sam held his breath, waiting for the wizard to get down on his knees and propose to Frodo, but instead the two old friends continued to sit around the table and talk. And talk and talk and talk…

…and _talk_ and _talk_. For what felt like hours. Sam began to grow quite bored. They chatted at length about a ring, a dark lord, and something about the end of the world, until Sam thought he would fall asleep and have sweet dreams of Frodo. He must have started snoring and alerted Gandalf, because suddenly the wizard grabbed him and yanked him into the kitchen, slamming him onto the kitchen table like something out of Sam's daydreams.

"Confound it all, Samwise Gamgee. Have you been eavesdropping?" Gandalf demanded.

"I'm more interested in pants-dropping, actually, sir," said Sam. He blushed and stuttered out, "I-I mean, uh, I haven't been droppin' no eaves, sir. Honest."

"Well regardless of whether or not you've been eavesdropping, there is great evil stirring in the East. The Dark Lord, otherwise known as Donal—I mean, Sauron, is gathering power. His servants are hunting Frodo this very moment."

"I don't blame them one bit," said Sam, glancing longingly at Frodo. "I mean, uh, how dreadful! What are we to do?"

"We must make haste," said Gandalf. "Frodo has already agreed to leave the Shire. It's no longer safe for him here!"

Meanwhile, a couple of Ring-Wraiths on black horses came riding up to the Shire. They were trying to gather information on Frodo's whereabouts, but they had forgotten to bring their identification papers and were in a spot of trouble with the hobbits who guarded the border.

A hobbit in uniform was questioning the nearest Ring-Wraith. "What are you doing in the Shire?" he demanded.

"What are _you_ doing in the Shire?" said the Wraith, deciding to be a smartass.

Another hobbit stepped forward and demanded, "What's your business in the Shire?"

"What's _your_ business in the Shire?" the Wraith shot back.

The two hobbits looked at each other, completely at a loss.

Back in Bag End, Frodo had caught a chill from the open window and was tucked up in an armchair with plenty of blankets, while Gandalf decided what to do with Sam.

"He knows too much," Gandalf sighed. "I could let him go, but then I would have to kill him."

"Or he could come along with me," said Frodo. "I'll need somebody to carry all my stuff."

Sam tried to still the rapid beating of his heart. "Oh, yes, Mr. Frodo! Let me come with you!" He hastily cleared his throat. "So I can impress all the ladies, of course. I just _love_ the ladies! Especially that Rosie down at the Green Dragon."

"Oh, Sam!" cried Rosie, appearing on cue. "I knew you cared!"

Sam stared at her in wide-eyed fear, then beat her with the tea kettle and knocked her unconscious again.

* * *

 _Note:_ If anyone was wondering, yes, I based some of Sam's behavior on Helga from _Hey Arnold_. Because it was fun. This chapter also contains a reference from _That 70s Show_.


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